


Snow Removal Services

by Xerxia



Series: Everlark Advent [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/pseuds/Xerxia
Summary: Part of my Everlark Advent collection, this is Day 4, and is being posted separately because it is part of a series of one-shots from this universe.





	1. Part One

##  **Snow Removal Services**

**rated T**

* * *

Eight years of high school and collegiate wrestling, six years of coaching middle school wrestlers, hundreds of pickup football games and baseball games, thousands of hours of one-on-one basketball with Rye on our parents uneven driveway, and how do I destroy my knee? Slipping on the ice as I got out of my car right in front of my own home.

Angry doesn’t even cover it. I’m livid. In addition to the injury, I’m now two weeks into what will essentially be an eight week post-op sentence of house arrest. Why? Because my crusty old alcoholic landlord won’t pay for snow and ice removal services. So I’m all but trapped by the crust of heavy snow that plasters the walkway to my apartment. 

This place had seemed like a slice of perfection when I signed the lease six months ago. Ground floor of a charming old Victorian house that’d been converted into four apartments. Right on the river. Nice kitchen. Huge windows and great light. Sure, the lawn was perpetually overrun with dandelions, but the owner has an old hippie look about him, so I assumed he was anti-pesticides.

Nope. Turns out Haymitch is just too drunk to give a crap. And what was a minor annoyance in the summer and fall became a matter of life or limb in winter.

My limb, and my now surgically repaired ACL.

After a dose of painkillers, I fall asleep on the sofa. A nightmare follows, where I’m lying beside my car, writhing in pain, and every person I know comes by and throws a shovel full of snow on me. It’s quite a long dream, and the deeper I’m buried, the harder it is to breathe. I try to call out, begging them to stop, but the snow fills my mouth and nose and I can’t make any sound. Still the shovel scrapes on and on and on…

  
I wake with a start. Thin winter light spills through the large windows. The scraping of the shovel continues. Still half in the nightmare, I grab my crutches and stagger to the front door, flinging it open with a bang.

She spins around so quickly that her long braid swings up from under her stocking cap, smacking her in the face. Her grey eyes are wide like pie plates, set above winter-kissed cheeks.

Katniss Everdeen.

Katniss, the landlord’s black-haired niece.

Most of the reason I haven’t broken my lease, have stayed in this place despite its many shortcomings, is Katniss, who lives in the third floor apartment. Katniss, who sings in the shower, not knowing how the ancient ventilation system carries her hypnotic voice directly to me. Katniss, who spent summer weekends when she wasn’t working sunbathing in our shared backyard. Katniss, who, despite having starred in an embarrassing number of my fantasies, I’ve never spoken to. Something about her turns me into an insecure little boy.

Katniss, who is standing on the walkway that leads only to my entrance, wielding a shovel, the snow and ice pack now gone.

She’s standing before me, apprehension and confusion in her lovely quicksilver eyes, and I finally have an opportunity to talk to her. And though I have a reputation for being silver-tongued, can keep a classroom full of twelve year olds on the edge of their seats even during our poetry units, what falls from my face, my very first words to the raven-haired beauty I’ve been crushing on for months, are; “What are you doing?”

Immediately, I want to slap myself. I can’t even blame the morphling.

A flicker of amusement alights on her face. “Ice sculpting,” she says, completely deadpan. “Practising my entry for the Winter Carnival.” She waves a mittened hand at a pile of lumpy, dirty snow with a flourish.

The laugh that bursts out of me sounds more like a snort, and my nerves recede a little.

She smiles, and my mirth is replaced by awe. I’ve never seen her smile before. It’s gorgeous. She’s gorgeous. “I heard, uh. About what happened.” She glances down at the brace that stretches from my thigh to calf. “And, uh, I wanted to help.”

“Haymitch put you up to it?” She scowls.

“Please, Haymitch is like the groundhog. He’s not coming out of his hole until spring.”

I laugh. “I imagine you’re right about that. Must have a stockpile of white liquor down there.”

“You have no idea.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t want to,” I say. I’ve heard strange noises and experienced noxious smells emanating from Haymitch’s basement apartment. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he was raising geese down there.

We lapse into silence. The cold winter air is seeping into my already drafty apartment, and Katniss is shivering. “Well, thank you for this. I was dreading the idea of being stuck here until the thaw.”

“Any time, Peeta,” she says, and I shiver. My name on her tongue is the most exquisite sound. I want to hear it again and again and again.

Preferably in my bed.

“Can I, uh. Can I pay you back?”

She shrugs. “I’ve heard amazing things about your buns,” she says. “Your cheese buns I mean.” The teasing smile on her face makes my heart soar.

“I could make you dinner?” The offer is out there before I realize how impossible it is. I’ve already stood in this doorway longer than I’m supposed to be on my feet, and I have nothing in the house but Gatorade and saltines. “I mean, um, not now. When I can cook again.” I sort of awkwardly wave at my leg.

I don’t think I’m imagining the way her face falls “Oh, yeah. Some time. Sure,” she says, and she looks disappointed. It takes a beat too long for my brain to kick in, for the realization to hit me that she was flirting with me, wanted to spend time with me, maybe. But she’s already heading back down the walkway and around the corner of the house to her own entrance.

I could have ordered pizza. Called in a favour from one of my friends. Fed her the damned saltines. Anything but dismiss her so rudely. What a fucking wasted chance.

I stand in the doorway until I’m half frozen and my knee is throbbing, contemplating my own stupidity.

It’s fully dark when someone knocks on my door ninety minutes later. Winter sucks. I’m cranky and grumpy and I definitely don’t have the energy to get off the couch. But the door is still unlocked. So I grunt out a brusque “Come in.”

I’m pretty sure it’s a hallucination when the door opens and a plastic bag is thrust through the gap.

_Silver Parachute Take-Out._

Her beautiful face follows, a shy smile playing on her lips. “I don’t suppose you like lamb stew?”

I won’t be letting this chance go to waste.


	2. Part two

There's an odd scratching shuffling sound just outside my front door, followed by a thump. I smirk; it's probably the Amazon guy again. Four weeks post-surgery and still on crutches, Amazon Prime is the only way my Christmas shopping is getting done this year. I'm doing a little weight bearing on my knee in my thrice weekly physiotherapy sessions, but I'm by no means ready to face the mall. So Floyd, the Amazon man, has become a fixture in my apartment. 

 

“It's open,” I bellow from my perch on the couch where my knee is propped up on a pillow and covered by a bag of frozen peas. Might as well have him drop the packages inside. 

 

The door slams open and I jump. Sticking through my entrance is not a cardboard box but a chunk of greenery, the top of an evergreen tree.  _ What the hell? _ I groan; I definitely did not order a tree. 

 

From amidst the boughs, a lovely flushed face smirks at me. Katniss, girl not only of my dreams, but for the past couple of weeks girl who comes over sometimes to hang out, watch TV and chat. 

 

Not that she's left my dreams. If anything, her presence in my waking life has increased the frequency I think about her at night. Thank goodness I wrecked my knee instead of my wrist.

 

She crooks an eyebrow at me as she stands in my doorway, arms full of tree, waiting for my reaction. “What are you doing?” I ask, and then cringe. Why do I always sound like an idiot in her presence?

 

“Urban reforestation,” she deadpans. “Gonna plant this one here.” And I laugh. 

 

She drags the tree the rest of the way into my apartment, then closes my door firmly. “Seriously though. What's up with the tree?”

 

“It's Christmas, Peeta, and your apartment looks like Scrooge lives here.” I glance around; she's not wrong. A manila envelope filled with Christmas cards from my students is carelessly tossed on my end table, and the gifts I've bought for my nephews are still in their Amazon boxes. “Have you got a tree stand?”

 

I scratch my head absently. I know there’s a box of assorted Christmas detritus in the top of my closet, my mother insisted I take it with me when I left. I haven’t opened it since I moved out though. “I’m not entirely sure,” I admit. “I’ve never had a live tree before.”

 

“It’s not technically alive anymore. Wait, you're not allergic to real trees, are you?”

 

“There are people who are allergic to trees?”

 

“You teach middle school, Peeta. You know there are people allergic to everything.” She's right about that; last year I had a kid in my class who was allergic to white glue. Made for some interesting art classes.

 

“No, no strange allergies. But my mother hates real trees, we always had the tinsel type growing up.” She looks personally affronted. 

 

“We’re going to fix that right now,” she says. Then she turns and breezes back out, leaving me alone, a little bewildered, and with 6 feet of Douglas fir leaning against my livingroom wall.

 

She’s back surprisingly quickly, holding what looks like a medieval torture device but is, apparently, a tree stand. I watch, fascinated, as she winds bolts into the tree trunk bare-handed. “Can I, uh. Can I help you with that?” She glances up at me, hovering, with a mostly-thawed bag of peas in one hand. And she smiles.

 

“I think I’ve got this part. But maybe some hot chocolate?” Damn, I’m an impossibly shitty host. I can’t figure out why this bright, funny girl keeps coming back. But I’m so incredibly glad she does.

 

The only reason I even have hot chocolate is because Katniss brought a box of Swiss Miss the last time she came over. My trips into the great beyond for physical therapy mean that there’s food in my house again, but I haven’t been spending any time in my kitchen. Normally by this point in December I’d have made hundreds of Christmas cookies. But my knee isn't the only thing I destroyed this year. My holiday spirit is kind of in shambles too. But dad dropped off a bag of shortbread when he picked me up this morning for my doctor’s visit, so I throw a few on a plate. It takes three trips to bring everything into the livingroom, by which time Katniss has the tree standing straight and proud in the corner.

 

“Wow,” I murmur, and I’m not certain whether I’m talking about the tree, or the slender woman  who is fluffing the branches of the first Christmas tree I’ve ever had in a place of my own. Her jacket and hat tossed aside, she’s wearing a pale cream sweater and jeans that highlight an absolutely perfect ass.

 

“Do you at least have some decorations?” she asks, turning to face me.

 

“Yeah,” I say, a little hoarse. She has no idea, the effect she has on me. She waits, eyebrow raised, and finally I snap back into reality. “Oh, uh. Bedroom closet.” I start to shuffle that way, but she’s faster, and has already let herself into my bedroom before I muster the presence of mind to follow.

 

I catch her sneaking a glance at my bed before she opens the closet door. I’m generally a tidy person, but four weeks of confinement means this room isn’t as clean as usual. The bed is sort of made, my orange duvet pulled up over the sheets, and my overflowing laundry bin is tucked into the corner where it’s a little less noticeable. I can’t do anything about the copy of  _ Fangirl _ open on my bedside table, except maybe pretend I’m teaching from it. “Where in your closet, Peeta?” She’s looking at my dress shirts, all lined up in colour order, with a smirk.

 

“Top shelf.” Immediately I can see a problem brewing. This old Victorian has incredible high ceilings, which translates to a very tall closet. And Katniss is all of five-foot-nothing. “Oh. Let me.”

 

I move to the closet, she holds my crutch while I reach up to the top and grab the cardboard box marked Christmas - Peeta. But I wobble a little bringing it down, having shifted onto my bad leg without thinking. Small, warm hands grasp my waist as I do, brushing skin bared when I raised my arms. It’s so unexpectedly good that I nearly drop the box on the both of us. “Thank you,” I breathe, my voice low and lust-choked. Holy fuck, I’ve got it so bad for this girl that just being next to her, half-in my closet with her hand on my waist is enough to have given me a semi.

 

“You’re welcome,” she says just as quietly, moving her hands with what almost seems like reluctance before taking the box from my arms.

 

We sit on my couch with the box between us. Sipping hot chocolate. There’s a tension in the room that’s new, different... but not entirely unpleasant. “Let’s see what kind of scary stuff is in here,” I joke, though I’m a little worried. Who knows what my mother - who once decorated our family tree with nothing but shiny black glass balls and pink feathered garland - would have thought appropriate to pack into a box labelled with my name.

 

Thankfully it’s mostly normal, if dated, Christmas decorations. Several strands of coloured lights. Glass balls not quite vintage enough to be cool. Little ornaments of things my adolescent self thought cool; Spongebob wearing a santa hat, all four Ninja Turtles, a T-Rex holding a garland between his tiny outstretched arms. Katniss and I laugh as each weird nineties treasure is unearthed. And I find myself relating to her the stories behind them, the ones I remember anyway. My grandmother and the tiny stuffed bears she made for us each year. My uncle Beetee and the ornaments he crafted from AOL discs. The way my oldest brother always called me Tweety, and how that resulted in the dozen or so different plastic Tweety Bird ornaments in this box. 

 

She, in turn, shares a few of her own Christmas memories. Cutting down a fresh tree every year with her father, who is now gone, and little sister, who is away at medical school in Seattle. Stringing popcorn and cranberries to decorate. The kind of Christmas traditions I’ve only read about, wistfully, in books.

 

It’s a wonderful way to spend an afternoon. And the more I learn about this incredible woman, the more I like her. The more attractive I find her. The more I want her.

 

The sun is setting when Katniss reaches awkwardly under the tree to plug it in, then sits on the arm of the sofa beside me to admire our efforts. Somehow, the mish-mash of cheesy leftovers from Christmases past looks just perfect on the tree. I glance up at her. Painted in coloured light, her eyes glow with happiness, a soft smile teases her perfect peach lips. She glances down, catches me gawking, but her eyes don’t flit away. Instead, her smile widens. “There was one other thing in the box,” she whispers. She shifts, almost hovering over me, and my heart speeds up at her proximity. I can smell her shampoo, fresh and woodsy, intoxicating.

 

She holds out her hand, on her palm is what looks like a little sprig of plastic greenery, festooned with white berries and tied with a fraying red ribbon. I reach out to take it, but she pulls her hand back. Then slowly, as if she knows my brain needs a minute to catch up, she raises the little plastic bauble, until it’s dangling just above my head. Only then do I realize; it’s mistletoe.

 

She leans in, and brushes her lips across mine in the softest kiss before pulling back and looking in my eyes. Hers are questioning.  _ Is this okay. Did I read you right? _ I answer the only way I can; by wrapping an arm around her waist and easing her onto my lap. She’s so sweetly cautious of my leg, but she could chop it off for all I care, as long as she kisses me again.

 

The chunk of faux mistletoe bounces off my head when I kiss her, and her hands drop to curl in my hair. I taste her, chocolate and sugar perfection. She sighs and I breathe it in. Breathe her in. Kissing Katniss is so much better than I've imagined, and I've imagined it a lot. 

 

She pulls back just a little and cups my cheek. “I've wanted to do that for months,” she murmurs. 

 

“Really?” I’m fairly sure the smile that splits my face makes me look deranged, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “Me too,” I admit, and she ducks her head shyly. It makes me laugh. 

  
She laughs too, and kisses me again. And in the silver eyes of this gorgeous woman I think I’ve found my Christmas spirit.


End file.
